


hearts like mine

by queervampire



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Religious Conflict, Requited Love, Suicide Attempt, Unrequited Love, this was a 5+1 fic but I've decided to leave it at 3 chapters with a decent conclusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-25 18:36:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9838304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queervampire/pseuds/queervampire
Summary: Raphael's heart has been aching all his life.





	1. first love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scalira](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scalira/gifts).



> Happy birthday to Lana, one of my best friends who deserves the world, but hopefully can settle for this fic. ily <3
> 
> (the title comes from the song "Unrequited Love" by Yuna)

Raphael meets Evan in the eighth grade.

Evan’s family is from is from the city. It’s the one thing everyone talks about the summer they move to town, in what’s practically a shack between the humble Protestant church and the non-denominational graveyard. No one really talks about it before it happens, though Raphael does see a few women from the Protestant congregation shuffling in and out of the house on Tuesday, armed with feather dusters and wash cloths.

He knows his mother must hear something about it - she walks to work on the East side and back with Ms. Esquibel, the Deacon’s wife with one ear in the confessional and her mouth out the window - but she says nothing of it once she’s home. Raphael doesn’t expect anything more or less; she’s always hated gossip, and made sure her sons knew exactly why.

“God didn’t put us on the Earth to assume, _mijo_ ,” she’d say, voice smooth as a river-stone. “Only He knows what goes on behind closed doors. Don’t listen to what others say about people - watch and hear them for yourselves. Then you’ll know the truth.”

So when the new pastor and his family quietly move in, sending the whole place into a frenzy of whispers and half-truths, his mother is the first one to decide to visit them herself.

She has Raphael go with her, while Diego stays home to watch Julian (which is such an obvious excuse to simply stay home, period, but his mother just nodded her head and beckoned her eldest to come along). Raphael doesn’t protest. He is a good son who respects his mother and does as he’s told. It doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it.

Raphael isn’t shy by any means. He has plenty of friends in the neighborhood, and while he’s not popular, he has built some kind of reputation for himself that helps him to gain a circle of respect. He just doesn’t like to include Protestants in that circle.

He knows it’s a cruel thought, and his _mama_ would be disappointed in his judgement. Raphael is not like his mother - who was taught to read by a Protestant pastor through the Bible and various other texts, and was taught to never judge another person based solely upon their opinions on the saints - but he can’t help it. Protestants simply feel so different from him, and there’s always been tension between them and the Catholic parish in their town.

As much as he knows that divide will not be fixed by his mother bringing a housewarming gift, Raphael has to admire her optimism.

It only takes a few moments for the door to open after she knocks. The first thing Raphael thinks is that Mrs. Hughes is much too pretty to be a pastor’s wife - her face is bare, but far from plain, with baby blue eyes shining much too brightly and golden hair framing her face in a way that makes him think vividly of a movie star - and he quickly tries to shoo it away in a voice suspiciously like his mother’s.

“Are you Mrs. Hughes?” asks that voice to his right. His mother is careful to keep it warm and soft.

The other woman hesitates, eyes shifting between his mama’s face and the cloth-covered plate in her hands. She finally seems to decide and raises her chin a bit, like she’s trying very hard to be brave. “Yes,” she says. It’s so quiet that Raphael has to strain to hear it. “That would be me.”

His _mama_ beams. “Then it’s good to meet you, Mrs. Hughes.” She rearranges the plate to one arm so she can hold out her free hand. “I’m Guadalupe Santiago. And this is my son, Raphael.”

He ducks his head, unsure of how he should act. He settles on, “Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

There’s another beat of hesitation. Then Mrs. Hughes slowly smiles and takes the proffered hand in hers. “Well. It- It’s wonderful to meet you both. Though if you came to meet the pastor, I’m afraid he’s out.”

“No, no, we’re happy enough to have met you,” says Raphael’s mother, pulling her hand back to take the plate of biscuits they’d whipped up earlier in her arm and offer them to Mrs. Hughes. “We just wanted to stop by and welcome you to town. It’s not everyday we’re blessed with a new face.”

She takes the plate slowly, before holding it gingerly in her hands, like something fragile and precious. Her small smile suddenly grows. “Thank you. This-” She looks back up at them, face genuine, eyes shining brightly. “This means so much. And please, call me Eleanor.”

The two women fall into easy conversation, after that. His mother’s casual mention of their Catholicism doesn’t even make Mrs. Hughes bat an eye. Raphael simply shuffles his feet a bit on the porch of this small house - even smaller than his - and tries not to appear too uncomfortable. This is not his element. In a classroom, or their home, or among his friends, he finds it easy to take on the required role and act it out as it's seen fit. However, he’s not really included in this piece. It feels incredibly obvious that he’s nothing more than a comfort here for his mother so she doesn’t feel alone. He’d much rather be taking care of his brothers back home.

Then their discussion turns to Mrs. Hughes’ son, and Raphael is suddenly included again.

“Evan isn’t here at the moment - he’s with his father, visiting the congregation. He’ll be turning fourteen next month,” she says, voice only slightly swelling with the a hint of pride. She turns to Raphael. “And how old would you be?”

Raphael shuffles a bit. “I turned fourteen two weeks ago, ma’am.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. You seem like a nice young man. Do you go to school?”

“Yes, everyday, ma’am.” He finds himself hesitating on what to say next. “I want to learn as much as I can,” is what Raphael finds himself settling on.

It seems to be the right thing to say, because Mrs. Hughes is suddenly beaming. “What a great boy you’re raising, Guadalupe.”

“I only ask of him to do what he can, and listen to his mother,” she says, voice strong with a sense of pride that has Raphael standing taller. “He does both and more. I’m only responsible for half the work.”

Mrs. Hughes laughs. It’s a nice, bright sound. “You two are so sweet. I’d love for Evan to meet you, sometime.”

“We’d love that. There’s a note in there with our address to return the plate - please, don’t feel too stressed to rush. But do feel free to visit us anytime.”

She shows up at their door only a few days later, plate of cookies in hand and Evan in tow.

Raphael’s mother invites them in happily. His brothers are also happy to each steal a cookie while Mrs. Hughes and their mother sit down at the kitchen table to talk.

“Raphael,” she says, kindly. “Take Evan to your room. Make him feel welcome.”

Raphael is a good son, so he nods his head with a short “yes, _Mama_ ,” and does as he’s told. But that doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Evan is Raphael’s height, but that’s where their similarity - their physical one, anyway - ends. He has his mother’s bright blue eyes that shine brightly as his gaze roams around Raphael’s room. His hair isn’t movie-star-blonde like Mrs. Hughes, but it’s certainly not any less dull, and still makes Raphael think that he belongs somewhere away from this small town in the middle of no-where. Finally, his skin is pale and tinted pink at some points, so out of place in this side of town.

Still. As Raphael stands in the doorway while Evan seems to assess his room, it’s him that feels like the outsider.

Raphael is plain. He’s known this for a while, and the thought has never bothered him before, as everyone else in town is also the same. Evan isn’t. His clothes are the only plain thing about him.

Raphael comes in shades of brown. As does his neighborhood. As does this town. His whole life is in boring sepia tones, while Evan is like a painter’s pallet, and he envies him for it. But because he can’t have that, the envy turns to hate.

So when Evan turns and says he has a nice room, Raphael’s only answer is a short, “Thank you.” His _mama_ would be disappointed.

Evan doesn’t seem to notice. He has his hands in his pockets as he walks forward, toward the bed Raphael shares with Diego. A plain dresser holds their clothes - just enough for each day of the week, long as they wash and rotate them regularly. Julian sleeps with their mother, as they’ve yet to save up enough for another bed, but they manage nonetheless.

When Evan invites himself to sit on Raphael’s bed, he imagines that he has a bed of his own that he doesn’t even have to share, and this time the full weight of his mother’s disappointment settles on his shoulders. He feels shame for his jealousy. This isn’t how a good Catholic boy should act.

Then Evan says, “My mother told me you’re Catholics,” and Raphael bristles again.

“We are,” he says, apprehension seeping into his voice. “And you’re a Protestant.”

Evan shrugs. “Does that matter?”

Raphael-

Raphael stops. Blinks a bit. He wasn’t expecting _that_. “Well-” He hesitates. “Doesn’t it?”

“I dunno,” says Evan, so casually. “I asked you first.” A pastor’s son, asking him if denomination matters. _Dios_.

“Of course it matters.” Raphael tries to keep his voice at a reasonable level, even if Evan is being entirely the opposite. “I mean- it's everything you believe. It’s everything _important_. Why wouldn’t it matter?”

Evan doesn’t answer. He just… looks at him. As if trying to make an assessment of him already. Of Raphael, in his barely-held-together clothes, in his and Diego’s shabby room, all in shades of dirty brown through the movie-star blue eyes of a pastor’s son. _Inadequate_ is not strong enough to describe what he feels.

A silence fills the room as this happens: Evan looking over him, and Raphael wanting nothing more than to shrivel to dust.

Finally, he speaks. “Well, do you believe the sky is blue?”

" _Do I believe the-_ ” Raphael sputters. “Yes, the sky is blue, everyone knows the sky is blue.”

“And do you believe we all need air to breathe?” Evan stands up, walking over to him, adding more to Raphael’s confusion with each stride of his feet. “And a bed to sleep in, and food to eat?”

“Of course I do, but those are _facts_. You’re just listing _facts_!”

“Would you call them fundamental facts?” says Evan, a smile slowly growing on his face that makes Raphael feel both uneasy and uncomfortably warm.

“I- I would, yes.”

“But we don’t call religion a _fundamental fact_ , do we? We all disagree on the specifics. But we do agree it’s just a belief that we know to be true.”

Raphael gapes at him.

“And if we all believe in the fundamental facts, then do our beliefs really matter?” He comes to stand right in front of Raphael, now, looking directly into his eyes. Chin held high, like his mother, only it’s not meant to gather confidence. He already has it.

Chin held high, like a challenge.

“Are we really that different?”

He’s stunned into silence. This... this is ridiculous. This conversation is ridiculous. Evan is ridiculous. This whole situation is unbelievable.

Raphael has confidence. Not around elders - he has too much respect ingrained deep inside of him for that - but he commands respect around his own peers. It’s a careful reputation he’s built up for himself, of kindness and responsibility and leadership, and it’s taken him years to perfect. Evan has just teared the rug out from under him and he’s only been in his house for fifteen minutes.

Apparently he takes too long in his shock, because Evan repeats the question. “ _Are we really that different_?”

 _His eyes a very blue_ , is all Raphael can think.

“No,” is what Raphael finds himself saying instead. “I guess we’re not.”

There’s another brief silence…

... and Evan grins.

“Raphael,” he says, offering his right hand, “I think we’re gonna be great friends.”

Despite his better judgement, Raphael takes the hand, and they shake on it. Like a business deal.

Then Evan giggles, removing his hand, and the spell breaks.

“Now." His hair catches the light, and all Raphael can think for a moment is: gold. _This boy is gold._ "What do you all do for fun around here?”

Raphael blinks himself out of his daze until he can answer.

* * *

(Later, he discovers the whole mess actually came from one of Pastor Hughes’ sermons, and that Evan is actually awful at coming up with his own arguments.

He also comes to realize that this was the moment he started to love him.

It isn’t until the middle of their sophomore year and Evan clasps his best friend’s shoulder like he has a thousand times before, sending a furious storm alight in Raphael’s stomach, that he finally realizes: oh. He is _in love_ with Evan.

That night he prays that he is not damned.)

* * *

Raphael is newly nineteen, one month ahead of Evan and thirty minutes past the sight of the Johnson boy’s body when they have their worst fight in _years_.

“You- you’re _crazy_ ,” shouts Evan, staggering back into the wall. His bedroom has always felt so small - even if he has to share it with his brother - and now, it’s suffocating in the summer heat.

Raphael crosses his arms and counts to ten, trying not to scream at him for once to fucking _listen to him_ . “Evan, _what other choice do we have_?”

“I can think of plenty!” His golden boy - no, not his, never his - throws his hands hands up in the air as if to make a point. “None of them involve trying to get yourself killed.”

“People are _already_ getting killed!”

“Exactly! I don’t see why we have to add ourselves to my father’s funeral schedule!”

“ _I’m_ a _Catholic_ , I’m not his problem!”

“Well, you’re mine!”

Silence.

Raphael stares. Only the sounds of their heavy breathing fill the room.

 _You’re mine_.

“You’re-” Evan rubs a hand over his face. “You’re _important to me_ , Raph.”

His heart is so loud. Raphael’s heart has never beat this loud. How can’t Evan hear it right now?

He goes on, like he hasn’t heard it at all. “You can’t just propose a damned _suicide mission_ after… whatever-this-is killed seven people and expect me to be all _fine_ with it.”

Raphael has to swallow before he speaks. “I never expected you to be fine with it. I _want_ you to _help_ me.”

They hold each other’s gazes. Raphael isn’t sure how long. He gets lost in Evan’s eyes, a lot. A poet would compare them to water, or the sky ( _do you believe the sky is blue_ ), but Raphael is not a poet and would call anyone who tried a liar.

He’s never seen anything as brilliant a blue as Evan’s eyes.

Evan is the one to break the silence, sighing and runs a hand over his face again. “Dammit, Raphael.”

* * *

 (Evan is awful at arguments.)

* * *

That night, they gather up as many guns, makeshift weapons, and former classmates they can before heading out to the edge of town where the last body was found.

Raphael still remembers it - how Mrs. Hughes had screamed when the little girl - only a year younger than Julian, _it could’ve been Julian_ \-  had been presented to her husband by a grieving father, pale and lifeless, like something out of a horror movie. She still looks like a movie star, but Raphael would’ve greatly preferred it if he had not been forced to play out this one.

The meager six of them decide to split up into pairs. Evan and Raphael, of course, go together, toward North. Evan starts talking after only a few minutes.

“Hey, Raph?” he says, voice shaking worse than the hands around his father’s gun.

Raphael swallows, voice coming out rough. “Yes?” The grip on his own gun is firm. He’s never fired one before. He hopes he doesn’t have to. He’s prepared to do so, anyway.

“Remember when we were kids? And we first met?”

Raphael huffs out a laugh, shaky, but there. “Yeah. I hated you.”

Evan laughs as well, still warm and bright, only slightly dimmed in fear. Raphael’s heart trips over itself again. “Yeah, I could tell. Remember how I started talking to you about religion, of all things?”

His lips quirk up. “I thought you were ridiculous.” _And beautiful_ , he thinks to himself. _But you can’t know that._

“I guess I sounded like it, didn’t I?” Evan bites his lip. “Actually… I was just trying to impress you.”

That has Raphael stopping in his tracks.

“Impress _me_.”

Evan ducks his head. It’s too dark to tell, but Raphael almost imagines he’s _blushing_. “I… yeah. You were the first kid I met, and you looked all calm and collected, and I… I just wanted to impress you. Get to know you, be your friend, all that. You’ve always just been… better than me, I guess.” He raises his head to look him in the eye. “I wanted to prove I was equal to you. To be close to you.”

Raphael is balking. He knows it, his jaw practically on the floor as he stares at the boy he’s loved and envied and dreamt about since he was fourteen, admitting to him that he was intimidated by him. Him. Raphael Santiago, eldest of three, son of a Catholic mother and a deadbeat father, inspired Evan Hughes to do _better_.

His golden boy, future pastor and already a holy man, inspired by nothing more than shades of brown.

God, he loves him.

Raphael wants to speak. But he can’t. He won’t. He wants to tell him everything, but he can only tell him nothing.

_I wanted to be close to you._

How does he even _respond_ to-

Something moves in the corner of Raphael’s vision.

“What was that?” he says, raising his gun. Evan sees it too, apparently, and the shaking comes back as he cocks his own.

“I don’t know,” he says. Raphael is afraid. He tries to ignore it. Then he hears a scream, and more screaming, so he turns and steps forward to run toward it, and Evan screams-

“ _Raphael-_!”

Suddenly, there are iron bars wrapped around him, suffocating and painful. His gun clatters to the ground and he starts to struggle as something cold and sharp wraps around his throat as he screams.

There’s a gunshot, somewhere in the background of his senses.

Someone is hushing him, and he doesn’t know what is going on, and for a brief moment he swears it must be death itself and Raphael is terrified-

Then something bites into him, right into the side of his throat, and all he knows is _painpainpainpain_ ** _painpainpain_ ** -

* * *

Raphael wakes up with dirt in his mouth and hunger in his veins.

* * *

(Later, he finds out he died at nine twenty-three. He rose from the grave at midnight, exactly, while his friends desperately searched for him far from where anyone could reach them.

He smelled blood, and he was so hungry. He was hungry. He is always hungry, like all monsters are. He didn't even hear the screaming.

When he's full, and sated, and kneeling before his golden boy as blood drips from his lips and hands and down the streets they'd grown up in, that's when he hears the screaming. It's his own.

Evan stares up at him, his eyes no longer glow a brilliant blue and Raphael will never stop being haunted by them.

_I am damned I have fallen oh dear G-_

He retches.)

* * *

Raphael had loved Evan.

But all he can remember is his bloody body on the ground, eyes a pale, mocking blue as they stare up at him, and his golden hair stained red.

Evan is dead. He did not have to join the same fate as Raphael did.

Raphael wants to be dead. But he cannot have that, so he envies him for it.

He cannot have Evan, so he comes to hate him for it.

His Father has abandoned him, and he will never forgive him for it.

* * *

 

(His mother would be disappointed.)


	2. unrequited love

Raphael meets Magnus just before the sunrise.

He’s alone on a bench - or, at least, he was - waiting for heaven’s light to take him and finally send his immortal soul to the flames below when a man sits down to his right.

After a few moments of silence where Raphael dares to pray to his Holy Father - who abandoned him like a mother leaves a child in some dark alley - to  _ please, send this man away so he does not have to see the fate of the damned _ , the stranger speaks.

“I do hope you’re not planning to burn yourself to a crisp,” he says, like this is a normal conversation he has everyday. “Because I was hoping to get to know you and that would be a tragically short end to our friendship.”

Raphael turns to him in shock, mouth opening and closing not unlike a fish.

The man smiles softly at him. Raphael notices the simple lines of kohl around his eyes, and his hair is styled like a celebrity. “My name is Magnus Bane. And I’d like to help you, if I can.”

That’s- No.

That’s wrong.

Raphael can’t-

This man can’t-

The words come out against his will. “No one can help me,” he says, voice is broken, but it’s true. “I can’t be saved.” He still tastes the blood in his mouth. The blood of boys who were barely even men, dripping from his mouth and hands and onto the streets. Blood dripping from the golden boy he wanted to kiss, then wanted to kill.

His hands shake.  _ My Father wants me to burn and I am nothing if not a good son. _ The thought reminds him of his mother and he wants to cry in her arms.

Magnus Bane watches him for a moment. The sky has gone from pitch-black to dark blue. If Raphael focuses hard enough, he can feel the sun just below the horizon, slowly rising up to meet him in one last embrace.

“I beg to disagree.” Magnus stands, brushing off nonexistent dirt before turning to face Raphael fully. He smiles. “I’m of the firm opinion anyone is capable of saving themselves, if they so feel like it.” Slowly, he holds out a hand, adorned with a few rings that glimmer a bit in the early morning light. Raphael tries to focus on them, but he can’t release himself from the intensity of Magnus’ gaze.

Then, he quietly asks, “Will you let me help you?” and Raphael…

Raphael doesn’t know what to say.

He  _ wants _ to be saved. He wants a gentle Reconciliation, he wants to bathe himself in holy water and rise up until he’s announced clean. He wants to be his mother’s son again, he wants to chase after his brothers in the sunlight again, he wants to be  _ human  _ again. Why can’t he be human again?

His skin is so cold. He misses warmth; he misses the sun. When was the last time he’d seen the sun?

Three weeks ago. His last attempt. Until Camille pulled him from the blessed sunlight that made his skin burn and into the shadows, where she could whisper sweet nothings in his ear, as if she could convince Raphael this damnation hadn’t been her own doing. As if he would do anything but hate her for the rest of his life, for all eternity.

Today marks the second month of his afterlife, and he came to this damn park to end it, like Camille should have let him do beside the bodies of his friends. His victims.

To bathe in the closest he’d come to his golden boy’s light, one last time.

The sky has started to lighten. Magnus is still watching Raphael closely, his smile having faded to a small frown. A part of him wishes it’s out of concern, and a smaller part of him believes it. It’s nothing but a hopeless desire. No one cares for him anymore.

Not even his mother, who thinks he died three months ago, mauled to death by monsters.

“You are worth it, you know,” says Magnus, suddenly. Still quiet. Still watching. “You’re worth saving, Raphael Santiago. I know you are.”

Raphael gapes at him. “How do you know me?”

Magnus smiles again, but this time, its sad. He shouldn’t look sad. It feels wrong, more so than the possibility of Raphael’s salvation. “Oh, I know plenty of things,” he answers, voice light, seemingly unaware of Raphael’s inner turmoil. “Like the fact that you’re far from home.” Raphael’s heart aches. “And that someone has hurt you terribly, in ways you don’t deserve. But I also know this isn’t a punishment.”

Raphael opens his mouth to argue -  _ of course this is, what are you talking about, why else would G _ -

He clutches at his head at the sudden pounding.

Magnus persists. “You’re a good person, Raphael. Or else you wouldn’t have survived this long.”

Raphael shakes his head, eyes shut.  _ Wrong, wrong, wrong. _

“You’re so strong. And you  _ can _ save yourself, no matter what you may think, no matter what you want to hear-”

“ _ Why do you care so much _ ?” Raphael turns to him, finally, daring him to answer to his face. He doesn’t mean to shout. But it’s too much, and there’s liquid red at the edges of his vision as he tries to blink the tears away. The man keeps lying. “I don’t even know you. What do you want with me?” His voice catches. “Why do you  _ care _ ?” A single tear falls.

Magnus’ hand - the one that's been resting empty between them for however long - reaches for him. Raphael’s first instinct is to recoil, to run, to get away from it.

Then Magnus gently wipes his tear away. Then the next, and the next, until Raphael is crying silently and Magnus is cupping his bloody face in two warm hands.

“Because you’re still here,” he murmurs. “Because as long as you’re here, you can be saved.”

Magnus is warm against his skin. He is so warm. Raphael hasn’t known warmth like this in so long.

"You aren't damned. You never were."

Raphael breaks.

“Save me,” he begs, voice nearly a sob. He clutches at Magnus’ hands, desperate, like they’ll disappear from him forever if he doesn’t keep them there.

But Magnus shakes his head. “I can’t save you. You have to save yourself.”

“ _ Help me _ , then.” Raphael starts to sob. “I’ll do anything, please,  _ help me _ .”

Magnus hushes him and pulls him close, and Raphael clutches at him as the sun peeks over the horizon-

And suddenly there is purple behind his eyelids before they crash to their knees on a soft carpet.

Magnus just continues to hush him, speaking softly, as if to a child with a scraped knee. “You’re going to be okay, Raphael,” he says. Like he’s promising something. “You have me now. I’m going to help you." He strokes his hair and Raphael is _warm_. "You’re alright. Hush, Raphael. You’ll be alright.”

Raphael just weeps like a child.

* * *

(This isn't the moment Raphael falls in love with Magnus Bane.

Raphael isn't sure when he comes to love Magnus, quite frankly. Love doesn't come easily, anymore - not like in his first life - and he no longer has enough of a heartbeat to notice if it trips over itself when Magnus comes too close.

He does notice how Magnus' eyes are frequently lined with kohl. How there is always a slight shimmer to his eyelids, to all of his skin, and Raphael can never tell if its magic or glitter. If its his magic that constantly sends electricity down Raphael's skin when Magnus speaks to him, or of him in his presence. He notices how proud Magnus is of him.

When they're alone, and Raphael is hurting too much to forgot not to let it show, he notices how Magnus cares.

It takes Raphael longer to notice how hard he loves him in return. Part of it, when he looks back, is plain denial. He's never judged Magnus for his choice in partners, no matter their gender - though it always struck a cord of jealousy he's tried very hard to ignore because, hell, he does not own the _High Warlock of Brooklyn_ , who can sleep with whoever he pleases - but it's a different story toward himself. He's been working on touching the Bible again, running the tips of his fingers over the words until they burn so much that he has to pull back before they damage the pages. He's getting better at it.

The Catholic guilt is harder to fix. Corinthians still mocks him. Blue eyes and all those years of want and shame haunt him when he tries to sleep.

But when Magnus looks at him - something bright shining in his eyes, his skin glowing, a small quirk to his lips that Raphael hopes is only for him - he sometimes believes that maybe... Maybe, he isn't damned.

And-

Just maybe...

Magnus Bane loves him too.)

* * *

Around a decade after they first meet, Magnus introduces Raphael to Ragnor Fell, and the two immediately decide to ruin his life.

Magnus will spend long hours ranting about how their friendship is going to give him worry lines with all their teasing, but Ragnor will just bluntly remind him they're immortal and literally cannot age any further before Magnus is screaming and Raphael is laughing so hard his stomach hurts. They become tightly knit, and while there are months where they never see the three of them all in the same room, the letters and recounting of visits are enough to keep them close.

The letters are Raphael's favorite. In a normal conversation, he can never discuss his feelings so openly, but writing is so much simpler. The words flow easier down his arm then out his mouth. It helps that Ragnor never judges him for it - for any of it. He has Raphael's full trust and confidence, and respects it accordingly. He's even sent back the ashes of letters Raphael specifically requests to be burned once read. As if Raphael even needs the proof. He appreciates it, nonetheless.

Still. Nothing compares to seeing Ragnor in the flesh when he's able to visit every few months. Raphael knows Magnus feels the same, no matter how much he complains about how _insufferable_ he and Ragnor are together. It doesn't help when Magnus smiles as he says it, rolling his eyes fondly, sending the memory of his warmth from Raphael's chest to the rest of his body.

It's nice. Raphael misses nice.

* * *

(He never gets to keep nice things for long.)

* * *

Part of why Raphael likes letters so much is because they get rid of the worst part of human interaction: the reacting.

In letters, he can say as much as he wants without fear of judgement. Any judgement he _does_ get will be formally worded and respectfully addressed - which is the main reason why Raphael can only trust Ragnor with the things he says. And his trust for Ragnor is the only reason why he even considers _hinting_  to him about his feelings for Magnus.

Luckily, he only has the first three sentences of the letter hidden in his desk back home when Magnus turns to Ragnor in his lair, and says, "I should never have introduced you to my son. You corrupted him!"

Ragnor just laughs, a sound that's deafening from where Raphael hides in the hall, just to the inside of the door on his way back from the kitchen. The Bloody Mary stays frozen in his hand.

"Oh, please." Ragnor scoffs. "As if I've ever  _corrupted_ anyone. That's just his natural state - you just can't see it because you're practically his father."

Magnus just laughs.

Some blood spills onto the floor. It's hardwood, so it's probably fine, but Raphael should still clean it up. He sets the drink down on the entryway table and steps back, unmoving.

Their laughter turns to a soft hum, slowly drifting out until all Raphael can hear is their heartbeats and the blood rushing through his ears.

"You know," says Magnus, softly, and Raphael's chest aches, "I always thought of him as a son to me."

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuckfuckfuck_ -

Raphael must grab his coat too quickly in shaking hands because, soon enough, Magnus is calling him. "Raphael? Are you alright?"

_No. Fuck. No._

He can't answer, or maybe he forgets to. Either way, Magnus is there, watching him with a frown and concern in his eyes as Raphael finishes the third to last button. "Raphael?" he says, and the care dripping off his own name feels like a stab to the chest.

He thought it was love. He thought it was love. _What an idiot-_

He opens the door.

"What-" Raphael can hear Ragnor getting up from his chair.

He's had enough for tonight.

"I have to go," he grounds out, and then he's running as fast and far as his legs can take him away, as if he can run away from the hurt if he just tries hard enough.

* * *

(Later, Raphael puts a name to it: heartbreak.

Later, he comes back to Magnus - Ragnor already having left for London, a formal apology following after him - with a bowed head and a weak excuse.

Magnus forgives him, with his eyes and his smile, and the incident is forgotten.

Raphael never forgets the lesson.)

* * *

 

He watches Magnus as he stirs up their drinks and a familiar ache in his chest.

Raphael vows to work on his Catholic guilt, so he smothers his heart till it _stops_.

 

 

 

 


	3. requited love

Raphael meets Meliorn after the war.

Well - that’s only partially true. They first laid eyes on each other in the heat of battle, as part of an ambush on a Circle safehouse organized by Magnus Bane and some other local leaders.

Raphael had been taking down the enemy with machine-like precision, not allowing himself to think of the copious blood up his arms or look down at the bodies as they fell around his feet. He had to keep his head up and focused. Raphael couldn’t afford to lose himself to this, not when his family needed them to fight beside him, despite their creator having run as far away from the fight as possible.

Raphael didn’t care for her. He would fight till the last ray of sunlight burned him to ashes if it meant protecting his family.

The phantom burn of his mama’s cross aches on his chest.

He shakes himself out of it. No, he can’t get distracted. Luckily, the rest of the attack is focused on the other side of the warehouse, and Raphael is hiding in the darkest corner of the room as he licks his wounds. He scans the battle to see if any of his clan need him. That’s when he first sees Meliorn.

Magnus - who, at the moment, was firing bright blue flames that sent their enemies flying in air before they crashed back down with a sound Raphael just _knew_ would come to haunt him - had mentioned a single Seelie knight was joining them in the assault. It’s obvious that this is who he was talking about.

The seelie was lean but lethal, his blue-streaked hair tied in a braid that spun with him as he sliced through Circle members with ease. He obviously knew what he was doing. Raphael tried not to focus as he stabbed through an abdomen, not quite cleanly, and took a moment to pull back a sword now newly painted red.

Raphael turned his gaze away from it, only to see a man running towards the Seelie’s turned back, Seraph blade held high above him.

What follows happens on autopilot. Raphael forces himself off the wall, the slow-healing wound in his side screeching in a protest he subsequently ignores. One second, he's racing forward, he world a blur around him as he focuses on his target. The next moment, a neck is secure in his hands, and he snaps it without a single thought. The circle member falls in a heap between them.

'Them' being Raphael and the Seelie knight. Raphael isn't sure when he turned around, but he has, getting over his slight shock to give Raphael a brief once-over.

His eyes stop on Raphael side. "You're injured," he says simply. His voice, despite the long work of battle, still sounds smooth and soft over the ugly sounds of battle. Raphael supposes it's a Seelie trait. He's never met one, before. He can't help but notice a simple leaf tattoo - or possibly a birthmark - on his cheek.

He mentally shakes himself and focuses on the situation at hand. "I'm fine." Then Raphael coughs, only to double over as his wound punishes him for the lie.

The other man immediately rushes forward, stepping over the body to put his hand over Raphael's side. Green smoke appears from his fingertips, the familiar tingle of magic hitting his skin - only slightly different in a way he can't describe, maybe because this isn't Magnus' magic, or because it's a Seelie's, or maybe it's both - and when the hand pulls back, the sharp pain is gone.

"That won't speed up your healing," the man explains, "but you won't bleed out as quick or get slowed down by the blood loss."

Raphael can only think to thank him for it, somewhat surprised. He just shakes his head as he turns back to the battle. "Consider it a debt half-paid," he says, and then he's gone into the crowd of swords and light and screaming.

He'd try to follow him, if another Circle member hadn't bounded up to him and reality crashed back as Raphael threw her back onto her own blade.

* * *

(The feel of her hands smearing blood across his arms haunts him for weeks.)

* * *

It's not until three months after the war - a war the Clave has claimed to be finished and won, which Raphael finds darkly comedic - that he and Meliorn meet properly.

Raphael never goes to Magnus' parties. They're too loud, too bright, too warm, too everything Raphael is not and everything his friend loves. Magnus knows this, which is probably why he's so surprised when Raphael shows up at his lair just as the event is in full swing.

In all honesty, Raphael isn't sure why he came. He hates parties. Especially Magnus' parties. He's only been to a few, at first simply because of the crush he never wants to think of again, then by being dragged kicking and screaming. In fact, the moment Magnus invites him in, the sounds and colors are such an assault to Raphael's senses that he would have left immediately if it wasn't for the drink Magnus had happily put in his hand. He had some civil conversation until Magnus got dragged to dance by another warlock with bright orange eyes a few moments ago.

Raphael had downed the drink soon as Magnus was out of view.

And that's why he's really here, isn't it? To drown his sorrows in Magnus' alcohol. _Camille_ had made a point of claiming theirs for herself once she'd returned from her hideout a month ago, and Raphael needed... well. He just needs a _break._  A break that includes copious amounts of drinks.

In fact, he's building up the strength to leave his little corner and venture to the opposite side of the dance floor for a drink when a vaguely familiar voice says, "It's _you_."

Raphael whips his head to the left and takes a confused moment before he recognizes the Seelie before him. His hair is down, and he's dressed in soft fabrics instead of the old battle gear. He looks nice.

"You," he says, "I remember you. From the war." It's not the best example of his language skills, but the other man doesn't seem to mind, smiling soft and easy at him.

"As I remember you. You saved my life."

Raphael remembers killing a man without a second thought.

"It was nothing," he says, instead of flinching at the memory. He hopes it isn't misconstrued as a false sense of modesty. It's a fact - he hadn't really been thinking of saving a stranger's life. He'd been nothing but a killing machine.

The Seelie disagrees. "It wasn't to me." He leans on his shoulder against the wall, watching Raphael closely. "I'm fond of living. You just gave me the chance to keep doing so."

 _I'm not a hero_ , thinks Raphael.  _Stop treating me like a war hero._

"What's your name?" he asks, changing the subject. Meliorn doesn't seem to notice - or at the very least, doesn't acknowledge it.

"Meliorn. Seelie knight."

 _Meliorn_. The name is smooth as his voice.

"Raphael Santiago." He holds his hand out. Then, as an afterthought, "Vampire."

Meliorn laughs, bright and melodious. It's a nice laugh.

"It's an honor to meet you, Raphael Santiago." He takes his hand and shakes it, skin warm and soft. Almost as much as his smile.

Raphael remembers himself and the heartache and crushes the seed before it takes root. Hastily pulling back his hand, he asks, "Well, Meliorn- what brings you here?" The name is easy on his tongue and Raphael is screwed.

"I know Magnus Bane," he says, "from the war." Then, with a wistful look over his shoulder, he sighs. "Sadly, we were never as close as _that_."

Raphael turns around and subsequently wishes he hadn't.

Magnus is still on the dance floor, but now stands on the edges, his orange-eyed _friend_  standing before him with his arms around his waist. Magnus is saying something - he can't make out what - into his ear, walking his fingers down the other warlock's chest with a ghost of blue trailing after them. When he moves back, the man grins and nods.

Magnus happily takes his hand and drags him into the direction Raphael knows is his bedroom while he tries not to feel sick.

He has no right to be jealous. He doesn't own Magnus. They're not even a _couple_ , or a pair of any sort besides friends. He's not in love with him anymore - hasn't been since the night he found out Magnus would never love him back, not like he wanted, and he'd tried to run from his feelings but failed miserably and only recieved misery in return - but he's come to grips with it. The ghost of that heartbreak still has a hold on his heart, anyway.

So Raphael can't help sounding bitter as he says, "Trust me, you're not alone." He turns back to take a swig of his drink before remembering it's still empty and sighs. He really doesn't feel like going all the way to the bar on his own, now.

Meliorn is still watching him, but it's more... analytical. Like he's trying to make sense of him. Like he sees something Raphael would rather him not. He tries not to squirm.

Finally, Meliorn seems to make up his mind and says, "You know, I still owe you half a debt."

Raphael blinks. "I'm sorry, I don't-"

"I took the pain from your wound when you saved me," he explains, moving away from the wall, "but it was only a half-debt. I still owe you more."

"No," is Raphael's first response, sharp and cold. "No, you don't. I didn't do anything worth being celebrated over." He still remembers the blood on his arms and knows he'll never forget.

Meliorn looks at him again. "You don't believe it," he says, softly, "but you saved my life. I would be dead if you hadn't done what you did, no matter how terrible that act may have been for you." His eyes are piercing as Raphael can't look away. "I _want_ to pay you back for it. Any way I can."

Raphael swallows. They've been talking for only a few minutes, and he's seriously beginning to wonder if there's something about him that just screams _Catholic guilt!_  to pretty men. Instead, he says, "A drink would be nice. A _very_ strong drink."

Meliorn blinks in mild surprise. Raphael is suddenly worried that was inappropriate - really, the man is offering him a life debt, and he asks for _alcohol_ \- but Meliorn just bursts into laughter and the tension slides off Raphael's shoulders.

"Raphael," he says after he recovers, still _giggling_ , "I'd be happy to. Only if you joined me, of course." He holds out his arm for Raphael to take.

Raphael takes a moment, first, to consider it. He doesn't do physical contact. It's not out of discomfort, not necessarily, he just... doesn't think about it. Most people never bother to initiate it with him, besides a hand shake or attempted hit (he doesn't think of Camille's fingers, sharp against his shoulders). Real contact is only ever preserved for those close to him, or those who want something from him.

Then he stops. He's overthinking this. It's just an arm. Meliorn just wants him to take his arm so they can go get drinks - an idea Raphael had suggested. And Meliorn is still smiling at him, just like he has since they started talking. This is nothing. Raphael isn't asking for anything, and Meliorn isn't expecting anything, so he ignores the warmth as he moves close, wrapping his fingers around the inside of the Seelie's arm.

The look Meliorn gives him does not make his chest warm. It does _not_.

* * *

(It does.

Over the course of the party, they become close, leaning against the bar and talking about anything - politics, their lives before the war, their lives after the war, what they like, what they don't like. At one point, Meliorn tries convincing Raphael to join him for a dance, but Raphael hates dancing and is quick to make him aware of the fact. Meliorn just pouts a bit but goes off anyway, leaving his drink with Raphael as he finds a pair to squeeze in between. What follows is something he's sure most people here would call dancing. Raphael calls it foreplay. In any case, Meliorn doesn't take his eyes off him for half the thing, even if Raphael has to look away in the hopes the slight heat on his face isn't a blush. Meliorn returns eventually, laughing, a glow on his skin. Raphael can't look away if he tried, which he does halfheartedly.

They become close friends, after. Meliorn gives Raphael an open invitation to his home, which he's slow to accept, but quick to follow up on after the first visit. They don't have much in common, but their similar views of the world and music tastes are enough of a base to jump off from. Raphael likes hearing Meliorn talk, even if it's from a completely different viewpoint than himself. Maybe he likes it _because_ of that. Meliorn is interesting, and different, and Raphael _wants_ to know him. And Meliorn wants to know him, too, something he constantly assures whenever Raphael worries he's started to ramble or bore him.

Raphael doesn't have many friends. There's Magnus, of course, and Ragnor, though he's been unable to visit in quite some time, limiting their interactions to still frequent and heartfelt letters. He's also become close with Lily, a fellow clan member, though none of them become as close to him as Meliorn does in the few short months after they meet.

It's inevitable that Raphael falls for him.

He tries to fight it, at first. He can't do this. He _shouldn't_ do this. The heartbreak of Magnus' indirect rejection doesn't hurt anymore, but he still feels it, like a phantom pain. He's been attracted to Meliorn since the moment they met - a single pretty sight in the middle of blood and violence - and a part of him always knew he'd end up falling for him, eventually. Meliorn is soft, and warm, and honest. Raphael notices the gleam in his eyes when he tells a story, the way his hands gently brush the leaves of his plants, how his hand is warm against Raphael's skin when he occasionally brushes them against Raphael's arm. Raphael ends up just resigning himself to his fate.

But Meliorn notices more about him than Magnus does. He notices how Raphael is still aching, after the war. How his heart still hurts for other reasons. How the cross around his neck has both become a comfort and a crutch. How he reacts to Meliorn's warmth, whenever their fingers brush, or when Meliorn experimentally takes his hand for a few moments and Raphael forgets to breathe, before remembering he doesn't have to in the first place.

The heartbreak still haunts him, though.

Raphael doesn't bother to hope.)

* * *

It's spring when it happens.

Raphael can't remember what they'd been talking about. One moment, they'd been in deep conversation about... something. Then Meliorn had brushed his fingers against the back of Raphael's hand, where it rested on the couch they were sitting on. Raphael's fingers twitched, but his voice didn't falter, which he was proud of. But Meliorn kept his fingers there, gently tracing shapes along his skin, leaving trails of warmth that travel up his arm and through his whole body, until Raphael had found himself unable to speak.

They've just been silently gazing at each other since then. Well- Raphael is gazing, at least. Meliorn is probably just watching him.

He's easy to gaze at. Meliorn is in a loose tunic, today. The white makes his skin look warmer than it already does. His hair is down, as usual, but he's yet to straighten it - Raphael had arrived as Meliorn had just bathed, and he had only bothered to finish dressing before joining him on the couch - so it lays thick and wavy by his unusually bare face.

Raphael wonders, not for the first time, if his lips are as soft as he looks. He's sure that they are.

"Raphael," he murmurs, and Raphael realizes he's been staring at his lips for too long. He quickly looks back at his eyes, only to see Meliorn watching him with a distinct  _look_ in his gaze.

He swallows. "Meliorn," he says, voice unsure. The fingers still dance along his hand.

Meliorn moves closer.

Raphael can only stare. Meliorn keeps moving, shifting his body and leaning in until their faces are close. Not close enough to feel Meliorn's breath on his skin, but the heat is there. The warmth is there. Raphael forgets to breathe, and then remembers he doesn't have to, again.

Meliorn is the first to speak. "Raphael," he says, soft, "I like you."

And Raphael-

Raphael must be dreaming.

Vampires can't dream. They relive memories in their sleep, but they don't- they don't dream. Still, that's the only explanation, because this can't be-

"This can't be real." He doesn't mean to say it out loud. He can feel the embarrassment firing up his spine and can't look Meliorn in the eye, focusing on the space above his right shoulder instead.

Meliorn doesn't say anything. Raphael can feel him watching, but he doesn't say anything. His fingers have stilled on his hand. Even when Meliorn reaches up to cup his cheek and turn his face toward him, he has to steel himself before looking him in the eyes. Meliorn is watching him so softly.

"Why would you say that?" he asks, quiet.

Why _would_ he say that? He knows this is real. He can taste the drink he had when he got here. Meliorn is too real to be a dream - his gaze is too much, his thumb too warm where it strokes his cheek. Still.

"Because I'm not-" Raphael hesitates. "People don't tend to like me. Not in the way I like them."

Meliorn looks so sad that Raphael has to close his eyes. "So this can't be real. Because this doesn't... this just doesn't happen."

There's a moment of silence. Then: "Do you like me?"

Raphael wants to laugh. It's such a ridiculous question, but when he opens his eyes, Meliorn is watching him, his face too open and honest.

"Of course I do," he whispers. "Why wouldn't I?"

Meliorn is watching him in awe. In a moment of boldness, he reaches up, and gently brushes the hair from his face. Neither of them speak.

"Raphael," says Meliorn, after a beat. "Can I kiss you?"

Raphael almost wants to say no. Because then he'll wake up, and the illusion will shatter, and Raphael will be lonely again. He doesn't want to be lonely again. But he also wants Meliorn. He wants him  _so badly._

So, without thinking about it, Raphael shuts his eyes tight and leans in until Meliorn's lips are on his.

He's never kissed anyone before. No one had offered, and Raphael had never met a boy that would say yes if asked. He's never imagined someone like Meliorn - Meliorn, who could have anyone else, who's so beautiful Raphael doesn't know what to do with it - asking him if he can kiss him. As if there's any question.

It's not... bad, per se. it's not fire-works-exploding great, either. When Meliorn pulls back after less than a second, Raphael is worried he's ruined it, that Meliorn has realized he'd rather be with one of his other lovers, and braces himself for rejection. But Meliorn just cups his face in both hands, tilts his head a bit and whispers, "Go slower, softer. More like this," before he leans in again to show him how to do it properly.

Meliorn is warm against his lips, and, _ah_. This is what it's supposed to feel like. His lips slide against his with practiced skill. He's as soft as Raphael has imagined, only better, because this is real. This is _real_ , so beautifully real. He slides a hand into Meliorn's hair, silky and smooth. Meliorn sighs happily into his mouth, one hand sliding to Raphael's neck.

"That's good," he murmurs, when they part again. There's a smile on both of their faces as Meliorn already goes back to meet Raphael for more. "Do it again, just like this-"

They practice until their lips are swollen and the sun is the only reason Raphael leaves.

* * *

(Magnus is ecstatic for them, declaring himself the reason they met and begging them not to thank him in a fit of dramatics that has Raphael rolling his eyes and Meliorn laughing in a way that would have Raphael's heart skip a beat, if it still beat at all. Ragnor gives Raphael his congratulations in a letter that Raphael makes sure to keep tucked away, safe for when he needs a reminder of why he deserves nice things.

Because what he and Meliorn have is such a nice thing. Raphael visits Meliorn nearly every other night, just like before, only their talks are interspersed with kisses and  _cuddling_ and all the things Raphael has never had before. Meliorn ends up becoming nearly all his firsts.

It's a week after they've progressed from _I like you_ to _I love you_  when Raphael loses his virginity, as inaccurate as the phrase may be.

The meaning is still the same - Raphael fell into Meliorn's bed a virgin, and then he's not a virgin much longer. But he doesn't _lose_ anything in those few hours. In fact, he feels more like he's gained something. Meliorn's hands are so soft against his skin, his body warm and mouth yielding to his as Raphael's pleasure grows and grows. Meliorn is  _wonderful_ in his arms, his hair tickling his skin slightly, his hips sending Raphael's back arching off the mattress as they both moan and sigh. It's beautiful, and as they lay in the afterglow, Raphael whispers how much he loves him into Meliorn's hair and feels  _alive_ when Meliorn returns the sentiment.

They're a nice thing, a _beautiful_ thing, but it doesn't last forever.

Raphael is rising in the ranks of the clan. He's known this since Camille returned from the war and saw the leader he'd turned into in her flippant absence, but as time goes on, it becomes more and more evident she wants him to become her personal adviser. Raphael knows it's not actually because she respects his opinion; no. He's a threat to her power and she wants to keep him where she can see him. It's a tricky position, and he's careful, standing on an ever thinning sheet of ice as he carefully maneuvers his way through every night like a particularly deadly game of chess.

Eventually, visiting Meliorn turns into visiting him _when he can_ , and that's how things fall apart.

Meliorn is increasingly busy, too. His position on the Seelie court means he has to be gone to for increasingly long stretches of time as he works his way through his own ranks. Besides that, he has other lovers, and he can't spend all his time in Raphael's arms when he has so many others he wants to be in just as badly.

They talk less and less. When they do see each other, there's even more to say, to catch the other up in their lives, but its so much that they never make actual conversation. Their kisses go from beautiful little miracles to something they just do, without thought, gentle but without the awe that used to go into every touch of their lips. They still love each other, but it's faded and feels more like a reassurance than a truth when they tell each other so.

Time passes, and they drift, and they fade, and Raphael-)

* * *

Raphael knows when it's over. He tells Meliorn as such, as they lay fully-clothed together in his bed, in his tent, where Raphael had always felt so alive and now only feels that warmth when Meliorn actually touches him.

The Seelie sighs and turns in his arms until they're fully facing each other. His eyes are sad. He doesn't deny it.

"I was hoping we had a bit longer," he says instead, quiet. He traces Raphael's cheek softly. Raphael just brushes the hair from his face, saying nothing.

Meliorn eventually moves his hand from his face, and they stare at each other in silence, only filled by Meliorn's breathing. It's still comforting to Raphael, despite their ending unfolding out before them.

Or maybe it's already happened. They're just finally addressing the truth in front of them.

"I still love you," is what Raphael tells him. It's not a plea, or a reassurance, or a secret of any sort. It's just a fact. Meliorn smiles at him, and it feels real, if weak.

"And I still love you." He plays with a button on Raphael's shirt. "But we both know it's not enough."

Raphael wants it to be. He wishes this was easy, that they could just keep kissing and saying they love each other and everything would _work_. But that's not  _how_ this works.

He can't help but gently rub his thumb across Meliorn's hip and say, "I'll miss you."

Meliorn immediately reaches up to cup his face again. "Oh, no," he says, voice strained and clearly hurt. "This doesn't mean we're saying goodbye. I was hoping... We can still be friends. And I mean that, truly. But only if you want it."

Raphael is quick to say, "I do, please," without any hesitation. "I want you in my life, Meliorn. I know we don't have _us_ anymore, but-" He struggles for the words.

Meliorn just nods in understanding. He's come to understand him so well in their time together. Raphael doesn't want to lose that, not for anything.

"Friends it is, then." There's the ghost of a genuine smile in the corners of his mouth, but then Meliorn is sighing and taking Raphael's hands in his own, pulling his arms from around his body. Raphael feels a last moment of panic.

"Wait," he says, and pulls their joined hands in between them. "Wait, can we just... lay here? Just a bit longer?"

Meliorn looks sad again. He nods anyway.

Raphael takes his hands to his lips and kisses them once, then twice, and hopes Meliorn will understand.

"Will you be alright?" he asks after a moment, afraid to break the last of what they have here, in the peace of Meliorn's bed. Meliorn lets out a small laugh that's more air than anything.

"Don't worry about me. I've been through this before. I'll be fine." He looks at Raphael with a slight frown. "It's you I'm worried about."

Somehow, he finds the strength to give him a weak smile. "I'll be fine," he repeats back. Meliorn just hums softly. Their hands are loose around each other's.

Raphael doesn't cry until he's safely in his room nearly an hour later, and even then, it's with silent tears. He doesn't have much left to mourn.

* * *

(It takes time, but they work at it until they really are friends, and Meliorn joins the ranks of Lily and Ragnor and Magnus in Raphael's eyes.

His heart doesn't fall and break, this time. It falls, but they catch it, slowly lowering it down together until they lose their reason for doing so in the first place.

Raphael takes his tired heart and puts it to bed. For the first time in a long time, he is soft with it, and doesn't punish it for bleeding.

It's a gentle ending.)

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE 6/13/2017: **I'm no longer continuing this fic.** I wish I could finish it, but I've fallen out of the Shadowhunters fandom for the most part and stopped shipping saphael (which was going to be endgame here), so I have no more intentions to do so. I still think this is a nice ending to a short-lived work, though. Thank you all for loving this fic.  <3


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